


Daft, Pretty Witcher

by Bouncey



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Smut, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, and Geralt could be a Professor at Clown School, idiots to lovers, jaskier is a fool in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28362468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bouncey/pseuds/Bouncey
Summary: Jaskier is splayed out beneath the summer stars, the light of their dying campfire casting him in shades of pink and orange that should belong only to the Fae or the sprites. Perhaps this is all just a vision from a playful puck, after all. Geralt hopes it is. He hopes that this isn’t actually happening because if it is, if the scene before him is real, then that means his feelings for Jaskier are not quite as unrequited as he’d previously thought. He can finally have Jaskier the way he’s wanted to have him for years now, the way he’s been dreaming of having the handsome young bard for so terribly long.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 300
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	Daft, Pretty Witcher

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valdomarx (cptxrogers)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptxrogers/gifts).



> Title borrowed from "Daft Pretty Boys" by Bad Suns

Geralt presses his chest to the tree and prays that the sensation of rough bark against his skin will wake him from this horrible nightmare. It has to be a nightmare, right? Or perhaps a fever dream, brought on by the potions working their way out of his blood or the monster’s poison trickling through his veins.

Jaskier is splayed out beneath the summer stars, the light of their dying campfire casting him in shades of pink and orange that should belong only to the Fae or the sprites. Perhaps this is all just a vision from a playful puck, after all. Geralt hopes it is. He hopes that this isn’t actually happening because if it is, if the scene before him is real, then that means his feelings for Jaskier are not quite as unrequited as he’d previously thought. He can finally have Jaskier the way he’s wanted to have him for years now, the way he’s been dreaming of having the handsome young bard for so _terribly_ long.

Because the sight that greets the Witcher upon his return to camp is positively _mouthwatering_. Truly, Geralt must have been slain by the monster this time because the only way _this_ could be happening is through a vision from Melitele herself. _Well, a vision from wherever it is that Witchers go when they die in the line of duty,_ Geralt thinks.

The bard is naked as a jaybird, pale body stretched out atop his bedroll. His lithe, willowy limbs are pulled taut with sensation and his hips keep rocking up into the air as he brings himself to the brink with his hand. He’s moaning soft little _Geralt_ severy time he moves his fist in a particularly firm and determined way and every glorious exhalation punches the witcher deep in the chest. Jaskier strokes the full length of his cock and thumbs the tip with practiced grace. He moans like a wanton woman, legs spread, heels kicking in the dirt as he writhes and tosses his head back against his bolster-pillow. He takes another breath and cries out: “My witcher! Oh! _Geralt_ , yes, _oh_!” 

The bright blue eyes that usually harbor an intense and curious gaze are squeezed shut in Jaskier’s moment of passion. His lips are red and swollen from being bitten by his own sharp teeth and his chestnut hair is plastered against his forehead and temples with sweat; he looks completely debauched. He looks like the kind of painting a naughty young Duke or Prince might commission of a favorite concubine. He looks, to Geralt, like the God of Lust himself, presented before the Witcher in human form. 

And it’s too much. It’s all too much. 

Geralt watches with wide, pitch black eyes and flaring nostrils as the bard comes all over his own fist and abdomen with a sharp cry of the witcher’s name. His hips stutter up from the ground and his back arches long and lovely, his spine curved as artfully as an Amazon’s drawn bow. The witcher shakes his head, trying to clear the way Jaskier smells and sounds and the way he looks right now, panting and spent, from his traitorous mind. 

It’s no use.

Jaskier’s beautifully hirsute arms and chest brighten again when a log collapses within the fire. A shimmering plume of sparks flies up into the night sky and some of them nearly hit the bard on the way down. He really is a vision. A dream. A gorgeous, playful nymph sent to torment Geralt personally. But this wasn’t a flirty line dropped between them at a tavern. This wasn’t thinly veiled innuendo being murmured jokingly over dinner. 

This had been a private moment that Geralt had intruded on. 

Jaskier hadn’t intended for his companion to overhear his true feelings. He hadn’t meant to reveal his attraction to the witcher or play exhibitionist for anyone. Geralt had been the uninvited guest. Geralt had obtained important personal information in secret. He had _spied_. He had _stolen_.

There’s no way he can tell Jaskier that he loves him any time soon without making things obvious and weird and possibly losing the bard entirely. 

And losing Jaskier isn’t an option anymore.

Quietly, too quietly for any human ears to pick up and perhaps too delicate for even the animals, a muttered word passes through the witcher’s clenched teeth:

“Fuck.”

* * *

Geralt can’t bear to look into the bard’s eyes after what he’s seen. It feels wrong, like he’s lying about what he does and doesn’t know. He feels like a double agent. Like a sneak thief. Like… he feels like a _voyeur_. 

Which he is, technically. 

He should have smelled the bard’s lust with his heightened, potion-enhanced senses and stayed in the woods for another hour to be polite. He should have seen the expanse of bare skin glimmering in the low light of their campfire and turned away. He should have heard those soft, yearning, _desperately_ beautiful little noises and fucked right off.

But he hadn’t.

And now he’s guilty and disgusted with himself.

He just can’t look Jaskier in the eye.

Geralt spends one entire day of travel grunting noncommittally at everything the bard says and suggests. “ _We should go to that harvest festival in Velen again this year_ ” or “ _You should try this new wine that Triss suggested_ ” and “ _Really, Geralt, is it my outfit, my voice, or my presence that’s offending you so terribly?_ ” 

The last one hurts the most. It hits the witcher right between the ribs like a thrown blade and stays there; the words ache within him like a poked bruise and Geralt winces when he thinks of them again later that same day. 

He thinks of them as he hunts down their dinner and, his heart hammering in his chest with a heady mixture of anticipation, guilt, and anxiety, makes his way back to their chosen sleeping-spot as noisily as possible. Jaskier is fully clothed (why wouldn’t he be?) and he’s muttering to himself as jots notes rather frantically in his little leather journal. “Aaaaand, finished! This shall be my greatest song yet. The finest thing to grace human, elven, or dwarven ears in centuries!”

“What about Witcher ears?” Geralt asks, passing him the easily-caught rabbits to skin and skewer. “Shall our tastes go totally ignored by the greatest poet to grace the Continent?”

“Don’t tease me so, oh great White Wolf. You’ve never liked my singing or given a whit about my songs, so long as they are factually correct,” the bard pouts. Something in Geralt fizzles and snaps irritably; he shouldn’t have made that comment about the fillingless pie all those years ago. He knew he’d hurt the bard’s feelings and it was yet another thing on the endless list of Shit Geralt Had Trouble Apologizing For, apparently. 

“I like your singing just fine,” Geralt retorts anyway.

“You don’t mean that,” Jaskier replies swiftly. Geralt hears the undercurrent of disappointed acceptance in Jaskier’s usually bright, chipper tone and it shakes him to the very core. Rattles him, really; it stirs something so deep within the Witcher’s chest that Geralt thought the instinct had gone dormant. Prove yourself worthy, it says. Jaskier sighs and gives him a thin, insincere smile, “But thank you anyways, dear heart.”

“I mean it,” the Witcher reiterates. His eyebrows knit together and his hands flex uselessly at his sides. Words are not his strength in the slightest.

There’s a pregnant pause as Jaskier closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. And then: “Go to bed, Geralt.”

“Food, first.”

“Right,” the bard shakes his head and swipes his hair from his eyes with the back of his wrist. His hands are bloody from gutting the rabbit. Geralt shouldn’t be feeling mildly aroused at seeing his bard handle the knife so carefully and so well.

But he does.

Jaskier washes off his hands and passes Geralt a roasted rabbit leg. The Witcher accepts it with a polite nod of thanks, scarfing it down as quickly as possible so that he can retire to his bedroll and meditate for as long as it takes to clear the image of Jaskier, naked and laid out like a Midsummer feast, from his mind. He licks the grease of the fatty meat from his lips, tosses his skewer into the flames, and retreats to his corner of their camp to kneel. “Hmm.”

“Goodnight to you, too,” Jaskier half-whispers, probably thinking he’s speaking too quietly for the witcher to hear, “Though I wish you’d just tell me why you’ve been so quiet. I get ever so lonely when I talk to myself.”

* * *

Jaskier doesn’t know what’s wrong with his witcher. Geralt hasn’t said more than three words to him in the past couple of days unless he’s being unusually rude and teasing, and even then it’s to tell the bard to _fuck off_ or _shut up_ or _leave me alone_. Geralt avoids touching Jaskier whenever possible and when they only have enough money to pay for a room with one bed at the inn, Geralt chooses to sleep on the floor instead. He hasn’t refused to share a bedroll or lumpy mattress with the bard in years and the sudden reappearance of this old isolationist behavior wakes an equally old terror in the bard’s chest.

The deep, aching fear that Geralt will disappear in the middle of the night and never return for him.

As the two companions travel from town to town taking up contracts and sleeping on nearly opposite ends of every room or campsite, Geralt grows increasingly withdrawn and Jaskier grows increasingly anxious. It hasn’t been like this between them since- well, Jaskier doesn’t like to think about The Mountain. Or the six months following. Or their reunion, either. He’s happy that things have worked out the way they have and he’s fine continuing to love Geralt in silence. Alone. 

But that _fear_ … it sits in a dark corner at the back of Jaskier’s busy mind and waits.

“Would you like me to bring you up some dinner when I’m done with my performance?” the bard asks one night. They’re staying in a decently well-off establishment on the edge of Novigrad and he hopes to make a hefty pile of coin during his performance. There will be a larger audience than usual and he feels the urgent need to prove himself worthy to his Witcher before Geralt can find a reason to leave. He fastens his doublet closed and twists back and forth in front of the tiny glass provided to them; he should get the waist taken in. He’s lost weight. 

Geralt looks at him for a split-second from the corner of his eyes before shaking his head and going back to unpacking his potion-making supplies. “I’m alright.”

“If you say so,” Jaskier smiles. He’s doing everything he can to mask the panic rising in his chest. He hates this; he hates not knowing whether or not Geralt will still be there when he gets back from entertaining the drunken masses. He hates not knowing if his best friend, his White Wolf, his Geralt, the unrequited love of his life, will climb out the window in his absence, never to be seen again.

It hasn’t happened yet, of course, but that particular scenario is on _The List of Things Jaskier Is Most Afraid Of._

 _Geralt Disappears Forever_ is actually rather close to the top of that list, along with _Yennefer Joining Them to Travel Long-Term_ and _Getting Lost in a Dark Forest All Alone_. They are things that Jaskier can’t help but fear despite his instinct that they’ll never come to pass. Well, they might. Geralt leaving certainly might. After that whole nasty business with Borch and Yen… anything could happen between them, really. Anything except the one thing Jaskier yearns for the most.

A romantic relationship.

How tragic it is, really, to be a bard and to be in love with one’s muse. Jaskier’s own situation is made even more tragic, really, by the fact that his muse is also the only man on the Continent who seems grated by even his quietest presence. His muse, who thinks that Jaskier’s years of study and book-learning are comparatively pointless and useless to his own brutish strength and life’s purpose. His muse, who thinks the bard’s swordplay is too fancy and less useful than his own, despite their similar forms. His muse, a man who thinks that Jaskier, a college educated bard with silk doublets and well-groomed cuticles (but whose palms carry the calluses of swords and daggers and horse-tack as well) isn’t good enough for a Witcher. 

_Never Being Good Enough For Geralt_ is the fear at the tippity-top of Jaskier’s list.

And it’s coming to life right before his very eyes, it seems. 

Geralt barely talks to him anymore and never lets them lay down beside each other, not even when the nights are chilly and Jaskier shivers beneath his blankets. The bard hasn’t been fucking or cuddling anyone else, either, because he’s too dreadfully loyal and besotted to even consider it. Jaskier can normally steal hugs and casual touches from Geralt whenever he pleases so long as he isn’t too obvious about it; except suddenly he can’t. Geralt won’t let him near enough for a hug or a shoulder-pat or even a brush on the arm.

It’s _killing_ him. 

Jaskier is the kind of creature that thrives on a diet of consistent physical contact, and he hasn’t gotten any in nearly a month. Not since that drowner contract north of his hometown. Not since the night when Geralt had come back breathing heavily and glowering like he’d seen - 

_Oh damn it all to the nine hells and back._

Geralt had caught him masturbating.

* * *

“Is it because you heard me call your name, or is it because you fear for my safety so you’re not getting rid of me out of pity?” Jaskier asks, settling himself down beside the witcher as soon as their campsite is habitable. They both take a long moment to gaze into the fire. “I know you saw me, Geralt. Is that why you won’t touch me? Or talk to me? Or hug me? Or… or share beds with me at the inn? Are you so _disgusted_ that you can’t even look me in the eye to tell me to _fuck off_ like you always do? Is tha-”

“No, Jaskier, it’s none of that,” Geralt interrupts. He continues, unusually verbose. “It is not because of you that I’ve been distant it’s because-”

The witcher takes a deep breath and Jaskier watches with wide, watery blue eyes as his posture changes. He moves from Defensive to Apologetic; the bard can see it in the shifting position of Geralt’s broad shoulders and the tensing of muscles in his neck. Jaskier can see the apology leading the way as Geralt tries to make himself smaller and less scary.

“I’ve been keeping my distance because I’m ashamed of myself for _staying_. For _watching_. For listening to you in a moment of passion that did not belong to me,” the witcher explains. “I’m so sorry for having broken your trust. I know it may take a long time, and that you may wish to part ways for awhile and travel on your own, but I hope that you can forgive me someday, Jaskier.”

The bard stands frozen, weighed down by the intensity of the admission for a moment, and then his eyes narrow and his arms cross over his chest: “Why?”

Geralt is confused. The reason behind his apology should be obvious. Jaskier isn’t the emotionally inept one between them, after all. “I want your forgiveness because you’re my friend and I don’t want to lose you.”

“No, not the forgiveness bit,” Jaskier rolls his eyes and scoots closer, “Of course you’re forgiven, Geralt. My question is: _why did you stick around and watch to begin with_?”

Geralt flushes. His face grows unbearably hot in record time, like a forge furnace suddenly blasted into usefulness by a dragon’s breath, and the tips of his ears turn a lovely shade of red. “Because you’re… Because I-”

Jaskier’s bright, jingling laugh interrupts his clumsy explanation and Geralt’s gaze snaps over towards the bard. Jaskier’s head is thrown back, the shining brown waves of his hair bouncing against his forehead as his joy rings out loud and clear through the trees around them. When he’s done laughing he meets eyes with the witcher. “Geralt, dear heart, are you attracted to me? _Finally_?”

“Finally!?” Geralt replies, dumbfounded. The shock of Jaskier’s easy forgiveness pushes even more words out from between his usually stuck-closed lips. “ _Finally_? I’ve been attracted to you for- for _years_ now!”

“Oh fuck off,” Jaskier smiles again, a little sadly this time. Geralt can smell it, too, the way his happiness begins to taper off. “Don’t tease me like this, darling, it’s rude. You know I love you and that I’d do anything for you; if you’d ever wanted me in your bed, all you ever had to do was ask.”

Geralt is flabbergasted. He’s in shock. He’s confused. He’s… He’s… 

“ _What_?”

“I love you, you great, handsome, silent idiot. Ever since that first day with the elves and the brooding.”

“I-” Geralt takes a deep, steadying breath. He lets it out slowly. He grabs Jaskier’s hand as if the younger man might bolt before he can finish out his confession, “I love you, too. Idiot. Even before Yennefer I- but that was all- and I didn’t know how to-”

Geralt’s words fumble into silence and they both take another slow moment to compose themselves.

Jaskier breaks the silence by laughing wetly. “I can’t believe this is the straw that finally broke poor Roach’s back, Geralt. You daft, pretty witcher. You foolhardy man. You fantastical, elegant, gorgeous-” 

They’re kissing before he can finish listing Geralt’s many good qualities. Two sets of warm lips press eagerly together beneath the dusky purple sky. The warmth of the fire can’t even begin to compare to the warmth spreading through either of the two men as they cling and grasp at each other, hands desperate to rest against naked skin after all these years of looking and waiting and _wanting_. Especially after this last long month of baseless separation. 

Jaskier pushes Geralt onto the ground and waits for the Witcher to get comfortable. Geralt leans his back against their packs and stretches his legs out in front of him, letting the bard have control of their embrace. Jaskier quickly straddles Geralt’s waist and presses his hips down and forward against the witcher’s. He takes a moment to revel in the softly hitching breaths his gentle movements elicit. 

Jaskier kisses a torturously slow path up Geralt’s neck, from his scarred collarbone to the warm patch of skin behind his ear, where he pauses to whisper: “So did you like it, then?”

“Like what?” Geralt asks dumbly, his hands clenching and unclenching in the silken material of Jaskier’s high-waisted trousers. His fingers brush the bow that holds them closed and he bites his lip to keep himself from ripping it apart like an eager boy at Yuletide. The bard huffs in amusement at his answer and the small burst of warm air against his sensitive skin has Geralt’s cock hardening even faster within the confines of his leather trousers. Jaskier notices and grinds forward again as he speaks.

“Did you enjoy hearing me call out _your_ name as I spent all over myself? Were you wondering what I was thinking about as I lay by the fire, naked and panting, _begging_ for you to find me?” 

“Y-yes.”

“Yes to which question, dear heart?” Jaskier murmurs, continuing his little rocking movements. Geralt is sure that he’s going to go mad. He can feel his mind slipping slowly, Jaskier taking control with every roll of his slender hips. 

“I liked it wh-when you said my name,” Geralt pants, “And I wondered what you were th-thinking.”

“Would you like me to tell you?” 

All Geralt can do is release a low whine, since Jaskier punctuates his question with a rather fierce bite into the meat of Geralt’s shoulder. The White Wolf shudders; all he can manage is a slow but definite nod. _Yes. Oh, gods yes._

“I was thinking about your mouth,” the bard whispers, swiveling his body in ways that shouldn’t be allowed. His hands have found their way under the hem of the witcher’s shirt and they slide their way around to Geralt’s lower back, holding him steady. “I was thinking of kissing you deeply while I fingered you open on some tiny inn bed near the coast. I was thinking of how good your hands would feel touching me. How lovely that deep voice of yours would sound as it begged me for release. I was thinking about how good your lips would feel against mine.”

Geralt’s head spins. 

“Kiss me,” Jaskier orders.

The witcher hastens to obey; planting a series of hot, wet kisses against the bard’s lips, down his neck and across whatever skin he can reach near the neckline of his chemise. He feels Jaskier’s hands tug at the hem of his shirt and peels himself away for a moment to remove it. Jaskier’s hands are on his chest immediately, warm and gentle fingertips tracing ancient scar-tissue. The bard hums sadly and presses a soft, reverent kiss to the spot above Geralt’s slow-beating heart. The witcher gasps, a revelation dawning in every cell of tingling skin beneath Jaskier’s slightly chapped lips. 

“You’re a marvel,” the bard whispers, brushing a stray white hair back behind Geralt’s ear. He presses another delicate kiss to the witcher’s forehead, his gaze softening. “These scars are beautiful because they represent all the times you survived. All the times you beat death and the odds and the monster… But I still hate them. I hate that you were hurt by your teachers and rejected by the public. I hate that you ever felt a moment of pain, dear heart; though without Destiny’s hand in your fate, I would never have found you.”

“Enough words,” Geralt growls. His heart is full to bursting and he has to put that love _somewhere_. Has to show Jaskier how much he really means to Geralt. He lifts the younger man up by the waist and deposits him on their neatly arranged bedrolls. 

“But Gera-”

The witcher silences him with a passionate kiss, taking his sweet time to conquer Jaskier’s mouth completely, tongue and teeth and all, until the bard is panting and wide-eyed in his arms. Slowly, ever so carefully and slowly, Geralt tugs Jaskier’s shirt up over his head, only pausing his barrage of kisses long enough to remove it and toss it aside. He leans down to resume their embrace before he remembers the trajectory their evening has taken; he blushes as much as he can beneath the mutagens and bites at his lower lip with sharp teeth.

Jaskier leans up on his elbows and swipes his hair out of his face, quirking a curious eyebrow but respecting Geralt’s silence. It’s always been difficult for his witcher to string his feelings together into words, so he waits. After a deep breath to steady his nerves, Geralt makes wary eye contact and quietly asks: “Do you- Would you _want_ to have me… like that?”

“Of course I’d love to have you,” Jaskier smiles, sitting up more. “You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever seen and I’d consider it an honor to make you cry my name to the heavens. But first, how about we both get naked and kiss some more? We have all the time in the world to move things along when we’re comfortable, my darling.” 

Geralt smiles gratefully and they take a moment to shuffle out of their pants and smallclothes. The witcher is about to lean over Jaskier and resume their kissing when he finds the world suddenly turned on end; the bard wraps two firm legs around his waist and levers his weight, flipping their positions. Geralt quickly discovers himself lying on his back on the blanket, Jaskier leaning over him, tanned skin looking radiant, almost magically beautiful, in the light of the dimming fire. 

“Should go get… more wood,” he offers lamely. 

Jaskier scoots slowly back down Geralt’s body and settles between his legs, where the smirking bard runs a fingertip up Geralt’s hard cock from base to tip, “Seems like we have plenty of wood just… lying around.”

Geralt frowns petulantly for a moment, borderline offended by the horrible joke, but his eyes nearly bug out of his head and his lips cut off a violent curse when Jaskier swallows him down to the base a split-second later. “Fuck!”

The bard hums with satisfaction and the tingling sensation that results shoots white-hot pleasure through Geralt’s groin. He arches his back as his hands fist into the sides of his bedroll. He nearly leaps into the fucking air when the warm, oil-slicked pad of Jaskier’s pointer finger begins to circle his hole. 

“Sh-Shit, Jaskier. When?” he manages to gasp out between pleased rumbles. The bard pulls back for a moment, saliva shining down Geralt’s rather impressive length. 

“Just now, darling. I’m always prepared.”

“Hmm.” 

“Are you complaining?”

“I liked you better when your mouth was full,” the witcher grumbles, the blush returning to his cheeks. Jaskier laughs brightly, no offense taken at the loving barb, and returns to his task (which is apparently driving Geralt to the brink three separate times and then slowing down as he works one finger after another into the witcher’s more than welcoming body). 

By the time Jaskier can move three fingers comfortably in and out of his pliant witcher, Geralt is a sweating, writhing mess beneath him. All the White Wolf can do is pant out the words ‘ _please_ ’ and ‘ _Jaskier_ ’ and ‘ _more_ ’ and maybe ‘ _gods, love_ ’. Jaskier loves it. He loves pulling each solitary syllable from his hypersensitive witcher. 

He grins gleefully when he releases Geralt’s length from his mouth and the great White Wolf _keens_ , high and frustrated, at the loss of sweet sensation. He pulls his fingers free as well, using them to slick up his length instead.

“Hush now, darling,” Jaskier coos, no less demanding in his gentleness. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll show you just how much I love you, and you can lay there and look gorgeous and show me just how much you love me back.”

Geralt bends his legs and pulls his knees towards his chest, baring himself for the bard, and Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. Witchers do not submit easily. They do not lay themselves like this, vulnerable and exposed, for just anyone. Jaskier, an ex-nobleman bard with several college degrees, whose love for adventure blossomed into all-consuming love for a witcher, kisses Geralt as tenderly as any prince has kissed any maiden. “I love you, Geralt of Rivia.”

“I love you too, Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, and his hands clasp at Jaskier’s shoulders as the bard slowly pushes forward. The slide of their bodies together, connected so intimately for the first time after decades of pining on both sides, pushes Jaskier to the edge almost immediately. He has to take a few slow, deep breaths before pushing forward again. Another inch, another beautiful sound from the man spread out beneath him. He kisses up and down Geralt’s sweaty neck, nosing at strands of white hair when they fall across his face and flying high on the moan his touches usher forth. 

When he’s fully sheathed in Geralt’s body he grinds in a slow, small circle. He pays close attention to the way he’s positioned and notes the exact angle he’s holding when Geralt shouts, eyes glassy with pleasure. He begins to thrust, his hips pistoning firmly but not roughly, nailing that one little spot over and over until his witcher is shuddering in his arms. “F-F-Fuck! Jas-k-kier!” 

“Yes, my love?” he grunts, face buried in Geralt’s neck again, mouth working a few brief hickeys into the tender skin there. 

“I’m close! I’m-!”

Jaskier wraps his hand around the witcher’s length and tugs along with his thrusts; it doesn’t take long for Geralt to cry out, back arched taut, hands clasped hard enough to bruise around Jaskier’s biceps, eyes rolled nearly all the way back into his head as he comes. He spends over Jaskier’s hand, getting a bit on both of their chests as he spasms and wriggles through the aftershocks. Jaskier wrings every ounce of pleasure he can from his partner before finally reaching his own peak. When he’s spent and exhausted he falls rather bonelessly atop the stunned White Wolf. 

“So,” Geralt mumbles, breathless, “I guess this means we’re… together?”

“Would you like to be?” Jaskier asks, fingertip drawing slow patterns on the clean parts of Geralt’s chest and abdomen. “Together?”

“Very much,” Geralt smiles, pulling Jaskier close for a soft kiss. The gesture seals all his love and hope and promise against Jaskier’s lips and the bard understands. He reciprocates in kind, lacing their fingers together lazily as he pulls away. 

“Well then,” he yawns. “Now that we’re in love and everything is settled, let’s say we get cleaned up and get some sleep. I fully intend to ravish you again in the morning.”

Geralt laughs and presses more sleepy kisses to his bard’s neck. “Alright, alright. Anything for you, love.”

“Careful, dear heart. I’ll hold you to it.”

“Good.”


End file.
